


Raise a Glass

by HiNerdsItsCat (HiLarpItsCat)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy, Star Wars: Aftermath - Chuck Wendig
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Drinking, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Post-Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker, References to Star Wars Original Trilogy, References to Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, References to Star Wars: Aftermath Trilogy, References to Star Wars: Resistance Reborn, References to Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008), Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:19:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25009096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiLarpItsCat/pseuds/HiNerdsItsCat
Summary: While the Resistance celebrates the end of the First Order, four unlikely survivors (Lando Calrissian, Chewbacca, R2-D2, and Wedge Antilles) gather to remember the ones that they lost.
Relationships: C-3PO & R2-D2, Chewbacca & Leia Organa & Luke Skywalker & Han Solo, Chewbacca & R2-D2 (Star Wars), Lando Calrissian & Chewbacca, Lando Calrissian & Leia Organa & Luke Skywalker & Han Solo, R2-D2 & Anakin Skywalker, Wedge Antilles & Lando Calrissian, Wedge Antilles & Temmin "Snap" Wexley
Comments: 4
Kudos: 37





	Raise a Glass

At this point in the evening, the celebrations had moved inside the limestone cave that served as a hangar for the Resistance forces. Until recently, it was occupied by the ship that, over three decades ago, changed galactic history forever when an Alderaanian princess used it to transport the Rebellion’s most desperate hope. The _Tantive IV_ was equal parts legend and artifact: a reminder of both triumph and tragedy, serving faithfully long past its prime.

But now it was gone, destroyed in the battle at Exegol.

 _I suppose I’m the only Corellian relic in here now,_ Wedge Antilles thought to himself, _seeing as the Millennium Falcon is parked outside._

He didn’t linger inside the hangar for very long: he had been part of so many post-battle revels over the years that they no longer provided the catharsis that they once did. He knew that he did better out in the open air, with the surface of a planet (or, in this case, a moon) feeling strange and new under his feet, providing enough of a contrast to the confines of a ship that he could remind himself that the battle was over and he was alive.

He was alive, but so many others were not.

When he closed his eyes, Wedge felt like he had been transported back in time. The humid jungle air of Ajan Kloss filled his lungs the same way that it had on Yavin; the voices of the Resistance members rang in his ears the same way that the Rebels’ voices once had; and the strange feeling of something _missing_ gnawed at his heart the same way it had over and over again.

_“Get clear, Wedge, you can’t do any more good back there!”_

There were too many years between Luke’s words to him at the first Death Star and where Wedge stood now for him to feel that sharp pang of guilt as keenly as he once had, but they still echoed.

Survival was never something Wedge had prioritized—he knew the stakes too well to spare much thought for self-preservation—but, almost in spite of himself, he had managed to live through not one, but two galactic civil wars.

The only survivor of Red Squadron other than Luke Skywalker himself, saved not by skill or valor but by a damaged hydraulic line that took him out of the battle early. Everyone else—Porkins, Biggs, Commander Dreis—perished, and all Wedge had managed to say as he left the trench was “Sorry.” When he listened to the recording of the battle afterwards, he sounded so unconcerned, almost flippant, and utterly tone deaf. 

No one blamed him or accused him of cowardice (at least at the time; almost twenty years later, a military historian would write a screed accusing him of dereliction of duty and borderline treason), but it weighed on him all the same.

So he covered it up with bravado, threw himself back into the line of fire over and over again, and somehow survived every single time. 

The price of living, however, was that sometimes you had to watch other people die.

For Wedge, it was a list that never seemed to end: Rake at Skystrike, Porkins at Yavin, Hobbie at Hoth, countless ships and comrades over Endor and Jakku…

Others died elsewhere, too far away for him to witness, let alone make a difference: General Madine, Admiral Ackbar, the billions on Hosnian Prime, Han Solo, Leia Organa, and Luke Skywalker.

_“Get clear, Wedge, you can’t do any more good back there!”_

And now there was another name among his private litany of the dead: Temmin Wexley.

Temmin—Snap—died in the X-wing Wedge had taught him to fly, under a commander Wedge had trained, wearing the nickname Wedge had given him… and maybe, if things had been ever-so-slightly different, Wedge would have arrived at Exegol in the _Millennium Falcon_ in time to save him.

Wedge missed his stepson’s death by _minutes._

He knew that Norra was somewhere on Ajan Kloss, but they had only exchanged a wordless look before she turned and vanished into the crowd. It hurt, but it wasn’t a surprise: he knew that his wife dealt with her pain and grief by retreating inside of herself, like a Loth-cat hiding away to lick its wounds. She would return eventually, still wounded, but ready to accept what support Wedge could provide.

Temmin’s wife, Karé, was here too, in all likelihood with her squadron, the ones who had fought alongside the couple in the Resistance for years. The ones who, from a certain point of view, knew Snap better than Wedge ever would.

_“You can’t do any more good back there.”_

A few minutes’ delay was all it took for Temmin Wexley to vanish and the legend of Snap Wexley, hero and martyr of the Resistance, to take his place.

_“Sorry.”_

The Empire was gone. The Republic, both old and new, was gone. The First Order was gone. There was some consolation in that: Wedge had outlived both the bad and the good.

Norra’s strategy wasn’t a bad one, he decided, and started searching for a place where he could be alone.

* * *

Most nights, Chewbacca stayed on the _Millennium Falcon._ Part of it was practical: the Resistance base was surprisingly crowded and not very well supplied, which made it difficult to find sleeping accommodations that would fit him. But primarily, it was sentimental: the _Falcon_ had been his home for so many years that he felt strange sleeping anywhere else.

He was over two hundred years old. He had earned the right to be sentimental.

But tonight, he needed to be somewhere else. The aftermath of a battle was an easy time to get lost in one’s own thoughts, so a change of scenery was important. He spent an uneasy few minutes in the crowds that had gathered to celebrate the defeat of the First Order, but went back outside once he realized that his sense of unease was because he kept looking around for faces that were not there.

There was much to celebrate, but so much to grieve as well.

It was nice to be around so many people who spoke Shyriiwook, but the downside was that he really couldn’t mutter out loud to himself anymore. During those terrible days when he was enslaved by the Empire, he would talk to Mallatobuck, pretending that she was just in the other room or on the other end of a comlink call, with Lumpawaroo raising hell in the background. On the surface, it sounded like madness, but there were times when the imagined versions of his wife and son were the only things that kept his sanity intact.

These days, he mostly talked to Han. It wasn’t entirely intentional; in a lot of cases it was pure reflex. Chewbacca would be in the middle of repairing a tricky bit of wiring on the _Falcon,_ realize that he left the welder in the cargo hold, and would call to Han to bring it to him… and then the present moment would wash over him like rain as he remembered that his friend was gone.

Chewbacca never really acquired the knack for fixing broken things, but he could maintain them, keep them moving, and hold them together. The _Falcon,_ Han, and his own heart—they were all things that had broken a hundred times over but kept running all the same.

Everything held together… until the day that it didn’t.

The Separatists came to Kashyyyk and Chewbacca survived. The Empire came next, took him away and put him in chains, but he survived. He met Han and fell face-first into the chaos that the boy seemed to attract wherever he went, and survived. He smuggled for some of the worst criminals in the galaxy and survived. He became an unexpected member of the Rebellion, fought in more battles than he could count, and survived every single one of them. He went back to his home to free his people and find his family and survived. He returned to Han’s side when it was clear that the boy needed him more than his family on Kashyyyk would ever need him, and survived all the half-mad schemes that were a fixture in that kind of life. He joined the Resistance and survived.

But Han, that sweet stupid human boy who kept his heart holstered like the blaster on his belt, ready to shoot—a heart every bit as dangerous and destructive as that blaster—who threw himself into the middle of every problem even when he claimed that he didn’t want to, because even a life on the fringes wasn’t enough to quiet the inner voice that couldn’t help but do the right thing… Han had not survived.

Wookiees lived longer than humans, and therefore Chewbacca knew that the odds were good that he would have outlived Han anyway… but that boy never had much use for odds or probability. He was an improbable creature: the street rat, the Imperial soldier, the smuggler, the Rebel hero, the wanderer, the father— 

Ben had not survived either. 

Broken in some of the same ways his father had been, Ben died more than once: when he tore down what Luke had tried to build, when he ran a saber through his father’s chest, and, at the very end, when he gave up his life to save Rey.

Chewbacca didn’t know how to reconcile those broken pieces: the small child who clung to his fur and could climb a tree like he was born in a wroshyr forest, the troubled young man who believed that his need for love was a weakness, the butcher of the new Jedi Order, the masked figure at the helm of a new brutal empire, the patricide with a wound in his shoulder from a bowcaster bolt… and the source of the look in Rey’s eye when she told Chewbacca of his final sacrifice.

He had witnessed the rise and fall of three generations of Skywalkers, watched them grapple with their names, their power, and their complicated legacy. Like anyone who had lived through the Clone Wars, Chewbacca knew about the heroic exploits of Anakin Skywalker; he had also seen the cruelty of Darth Vader firsthand. He had watched the naive farm boy who barely understood how a tractor beam worked grow into a worthy heir to the Jedi tradition, only to lose it all just as the old Order had done. He had bristled at the irritating Princess who called him a “walking carpet” and then, in what felt like the blink of an eye, vowed to protect her as fiercely as if he had owed her a life debt as well; someone who seemed immortal until the day that she wasn’t.

And Chewbacca was now one of the few people alive who could tell their story, and one of the few people alive who knew that the story of Han Solo mattered just as much as any Skywalker.

Luke, Leia, and Han. The Jedi, the Rebel leader, and the Imperial deserter. 

He heard the sound of a cheer from inside the cave. The triumphant laugh of Poe Dameron was the loudest of all, soaring above the hum of the crowd like a bird over a forest.

Chewbacca couldn’t help laughing as well, though this was quieter: a gentle rumble that vanished into the wind that blew through the trees.

Rey, Poe, and Finn. The Jedi, the Resistance leader, and the First Order deserter.

One sun sets and another one rises.

None of the trees on Ajan Kloss could rival the wroshyr trees of Kashyyyk, Chewbacca thought to himself, but they were beautiful in their own way. He began looking for the perfect spot to enjoy the view.

* * *

 _Add in some Ewoks,_ Lando Calrissian thought to himself, _and this party could be Endor all over again._

He had enjoyed the attention—it was nice to know that his name was still recognized by the next generation—but eventually the noise and the press of the crowds grew tiring, so he sought refuge outside the cave.

_What happens now?_

He had options: there were some former members of the First Order—children, really—who were looking for both their stolen pasts and a future of their own. Lando was good at finding things. He was good at keeping busy.

He was also, he had learned over the years, good at surviving, though that was less of a talent and more of a baffling mystery. Luck, ingenuity, or sheer panache—whatever the reason, Lando was still alive.

If someone had told him this when he was a young man, he’d have been somewhere between pleasantly surprised and downright ecstatic. Life back then was like the most complicated game of sabacc he’d ever seen, and learning that he had made it as far as he had would have sounded like the best winning streak one could ever have.

He probably wouldn’t have considered the implications.

Winning, it turned out, was a heavy burden to bear, not to mention a very lonely one.

There was a part of him that idly wondered if he would be the next one to go. Han, Leia, and Luke had all passed in the span of a single year, which left him and Chewbacca as the last of the ‘old gang,’ and Lando knew better than to bet against a Wookiee in the longevity department.

A _single year._ Estranged or not, it tore away at him.

The galaxy was missing three people who everyone believed to be immortal.

Even Lando, who was familiar with all of the messy complications and failings of that legendary trio, couldn't quite believe that they were gone.

Luke—years on the fringes, both respectable and otherwise, hadn’t prepared Lando for half of the impossible things that Luke managed to do without a second thought. He remembered the day they met: Luke, wounded from his battle with Darth Vader in more ways than one, clinging to a weather vane—and the first thing that popped into Lando’s head was _“_ _This_ _is the kid that Vader was so obsessed with?”_

The discovery that Vader was his father explained some of it, but the rest was Luke’s own doing: forget magic Force powers and incredible piloting skills, the thing that made Luke so remarkable was that, no matter how many times he was knocked down, he kept getting back up again. Sure, Luke’s self-imposed exile to the far reaches of the galaxy didn’t fit with that, but Lando knew that it was only a matter of time before the kid (and even decades later, Lando couldn’t help thinking of him as a kid) got back up and did some more weird Force nonsense.

And he turned out to be right. Luke spent his last moments doing the most Luke-like thing he could: appearing out of _literal_ thin air, driving someone absolutely crazy, saving the day, and all without striking a single blow.

Leia—like her brother, there wasn’t a thing that could keep her down for long, and she somehow made carrying the weight of the galaxy on her shoulders look almost effortless. Princess, Rebel, Senator, General… all of those titles suited her. 

_“You truly belong here with us among the clouds,”_ he had told her the day they met.

Those words turned out to be true, but for very different reasons than he intended: Cloud City _was_ an appropriate environment for her, because she was more volatile than Tibanna gas—and, when she needed to be, nearly as icy as carbon freezing. She was silk that hid not a stiletto blade, but a vicious right hook.

Only one person could stare down _two_ different fascist armies, and look fabulous doing it. Though devastated, Lando couldn’t help finding her sacrifice oddly fitting: no one could bring down Leia Organa but herself.

And Han… after all this time, what was left to say about Han? The obnoxious, loud-mouthed bother who had driven Lando crazy since the moment they met—

_“I heard a story about you. I was wondering if it’s true.”_

—the cocky kid who had the nerve to call _Lando_ arrogant—

_“You might want to quit while you’re ahead.”_

_“_ _You_ _might want to quit while you’re behind.”_

—the sneaky bastard who cheated Lando out of his own ship and then acted like he was the only one who could treat her right—

_“I got your promise. Not a scratch.”_

—the smuggler-turned-Rebel who accused Lando of being a traitor—

_“I had no choice. They arrived right before you did. I’m sorry.”_

—and the human disaster that somehow, against the most ridiculous of odds, made Lando want to be a better person.

_“I’ve done all I can. I’m sorry I couldn’t do better, but I have my own problems.”_

_“Yeah… you’re a real hero.”_

Lando could spend the rest of his life (however long that ended up being) trying to eulogize that man, and would only manage to scratch the surface of his friend's complexities.

And who would be there to listen? 

He had only caught a fleeting glimpse of Chewbacca towering over the crowds in the cave before the Wookiee vanished. If there was one person here on Ajan Kloss who Lando could stand to be around at this moment, it would be him.

He headed for the _Millennium Falcon._

* * *

R2-D2 didn’t consider himself something that could be _‘owned,’_ but there were several people who he considered himself close enough to that it was roughly equivalent, or at least an easy enough claim to make to anyone who wanted to _actually_ take ownership of him.

There were systems, subroutines, and a complex system of programming and reformatting (some of it self-designed) which provided him with what might be termed _‘purpose,’_ but a droid wasn’t made to be in isolation. It was made to _connect,_ to _interact,_ and to accomplish things in cooperation with organic and other inorganic beings.

The connections that Artoo had left after all this time felt insufficient.

It was not a comfortable feeling.

His memory banks contained gaps—not from memory wipes, but from a lack of data. Things happened around him without context, and his ability to infer or calculate the missing pieces was limited, even though he had long ago surpassed the limits of his original programming.

Artoo’s original programming was straightforward: _take what is broken and fix it._

He had done so on a Naboo ship, where he was the sole survivor of the astromechs that had been dispatched to repair the shields during the Queen’s escape from the Trade Federation blockade. It was that commendation—that survival—which altered his original directives to a degree that was likely not anticipated by his creators. He formed connections with the Queen herself, several Jedi, a protocol droid who would later become his dearest friend, and the little boy who treated Artoo like a person.

They all went to war together and Artoo connected with hundreds of clone soldiers and a Jedi Padawan who was barely taller than him when they first met.

But then something changed. Actually, a _lot_ of things changed.

Artoo’s core purpose was to take broken things and fix them, but he could not fix Anakin; something had gone terribly wrong in his friend’s programming and he began acting in ways that were completely different from his original parameters. Artoo had not noticed the errors in time—and the cause, if there was one (and there must be one), was not one that Artoo could determine.

_Insufficient data._

Then Anakin damaged Padmé and Artoo could not fix her either. He was not a medical droid but he knew enough from the war to know that her damage could theoretically be repaired with the appropriate tools. But, somehow, it had not worked; the GH-7 droid claimed that Padmé had experienced an internal error that caused an unexpected shutdown, but Artoo did not know the cause (and there must have been one) of that either.

_Insufficient data._

There was nothing in Artoo’s programming that qualified as _‘anger’_ but he came very close to experiencing it when Senator Organa gave C-3P0—Artoo’s _friend—_ a memory wipe. A casual comment, an afterthought really, was all it took for his friend to be erased. Any information about how Anakin’s programming or Padmé’s functioning could have been altered vanished along with Threepio’s memories.

_Insufficient data._

Artoo spent the next nineteen years watching over his friend, trying to recreate what had been lost.

He also spent the time watching over Leia, who was the next-generation model of Padmé and Anakin, for any signs of faulty programming or design flaws. He did not know why the other model had been taken away, nor did he know why Senator Organa had not provided Leia with the information about her parents. Artoo wanted to ask the Senator, but the knowledge of what had been done to Threepio was enough to deter him from making the attempt.

_Insufficient data._

Then Leia sent him and Threepio to Tatooine, where they met Luke (the other model of Padmé and Anakin), and Artoo learned that Luke did not know about his parents or his sister, nor did he know about Kenobi, who had been right there on Tatooine the entire time.

_Insufficient data._

And when Kenobi pretended not to recognize him, Artoo decided to wait until he could have a moment alone with the Jedi Master and then he would find out the reason.

But Anakin, who had acquired a different exterior casing since Artoo saw him last, killed Kenobi on the Death Star, and Artoo’s questions were unanswered.

_Insufficient data._

Yoda pretended not to recognize Artoo as well, to the point that Artoo began to wonder if the entire Jedi Order had received a memory wipe along with Threepio.

The lack of useful data nearly got Luke killed several times, but Artoo did not know what to tell him because he didn’t understand why no one _else_ had told Luke. Without context, it was impossible to calculate the risk: what if there was something in the data that had caused the faults in Anakin’s programming?

_Insufficient data._

Eventually, the broken things were fixed, mostly by Luke and Leia. Then Leia and Captain Solo produced a next-generation model of their own, and Artoo found himself with more connections than he had possessed in decades. He traveled with Luke and retrieved all sorts of information that had been lost over the years.

But then things changed—and again, it was because Artoo had not noticed that something was wrong and did not know how to fix it.

_Insufficient data._

Ben (the next-generation model of Leia and Captain Solo) had acquired the same programming errors as Anakin, erased the information that Artoo and Luke had compiled, and then left to do all sorts of things that were against Ben’s original parameters.

In response, Luke just… left. He went somewhere and left Artoo behind, and the map to find him was incomplete.

_Insufficient data._

So, even though Threepio was still there and Leia was still there, Artoo decided to leave as well. He powered down and waited for something else to change.

Which they did: newer models of droids and newer models of Rebels came to replace the old ones, battles were lost and battles were won, and the First Order became obsolete just like the Empire did. 

And, like before, things were lost in the process: Luke, back after so long away, ceased to function; Leia, who watched over Artoo for so many years, ceased to function as well; Captain Solo was damaged beyond repair, as was Ben. Threepio was _almost_ lost, but Artoo had learned one lesson, at least: he kept a backup of his friend’s memory, just in case it was needed.

Artoo knew that, eventually, he himself would reach a point of obsolescence where he would no longer be able to function, but until then, he would not spend his time in isolation. He would form new connections, repair what had been broken, and pass along what he had learned.

But some familiar faces might be nice right now. He calculated at least three people who, based on their past behavioral patterns, would be somewhere away from the celebrating crowds and perhaps amenable to some company from an old droid.

* * *

Lando was walking down the _Falcon’s_ ramp when he heard a familiar roar.

“There you are, old buddy!” he called to Chewbacca, who was waiting for him outside with a look of irritation on his face. “I thought you’d be inside, so I came over to say hello.”

The Wookiee gestured at the bottle of Whyren’s Reserve in Lando’s hand. «And you settled for getting reacquainted with the galley?» he asked.

“I brought two glasses,” Lando said, holding up the items in his other hand. “Let’s go find somewhere to sit.”

«Hope you’re ready for a climb,» Chewbacca warned him.

Their destination turned out to be at the summit of the mountain that formed the roof of the cave: an area covered in vine-wrapped rocks. Lando was glad that he kept his cape on—the moist jungle air was starting to feel clammy as the night fell—but secretly wished that he’d changed his boots first. 

To his surprise, they weren’t alone: one of the rocks was occupied by Wedge Antilles. 

“Well, well,” Lando said, “looks like it’s a Rebel reunion.”

“Not just me,” Wedge replied, indicating the droid at his side.

“Artoo?” Next to him, Chewbacca made a similar noise of delight. “How did you get up here?”

Wedge gestured to a footpath in the opposite direction from where they had arrived. “The Resistance uses this as a lookout. There was a lift.”

Lando turned to glare at Chewbacca, who was holding back a laugh. “What, did you decide to take the scenic route?”

«Exercise is important,» the Wookiee replied, still snickering.

“Tell that to my knees,” Lando grumbled, taking a seat on the rock beside Wedge. 

«You’re both just pups,» Chewbacca scoffed. «You can’t be more than… sixty? Seventy?»

Lando grinned at him. “A gentleman never reveals his age.”

«But he’ll complain about his ailments, apparently.»

“Wedge is getting your drink instead,” he said sulkily, passing one of the glasses over to Wedge and opening the bottle of Corellian whiskey.

“Whyren’s?” the former Rebel pilot asked as Lando poured him a few fingers. “I didn’t expect to find a taste of home all the way out here.” 

Artoo, meanwhile, had moved next to Chewbacca and opened one of his storage compartments, from which the Wookiee pulled out a flask.

«I appear to be fine without your hospitality,» he told Lando.

 _“Why_ are you carrying around a—” His question was interrupted by Artoo’s twittered explanation. “Of _course_ it’s Leia’s,” Lando said with a laugh. Chewbacca joined in and even Wedge smiled… though the moment that the laughter faded away, his expression returned to subdued, almost grim.

It was a mood that Lando shared. “Never thought I’d still be…” he began, but his throat closed up slightly, cutting off his words. 

“Neither did I,” Wedge agreed softly. “But here we are.”

“After Tanaab, Endor…” Lando said.

“Yavin, Hoth, Jakku,” Wedge continued.

«The Clone Wars,» Chewbacca rumbled.

[Naboo,] Artoo added.

“Here we are,” Lando concluded, echoing Wedge’s previous words. “Though none of it would have been possible without the ones who aren’t here: Luke, Leia…”

«Han,» Chewbacca said.

[Anakin,] Artoo piped up. [Padmé—]

“Temmin,” Wedge whispered, almost too quietly to hear. He turned to Artoo and Chewbacca. “Snap.”

Lando knew it would be a bit insensitive to ask who Wedge was referring to, but it was apparently someone who the other two recognized: the astromech and the Wookiee both made small sounds of sympathy for Wedge’s grief.

He turned to face Lando, took a deep breath, and explained: “He was my wife’s son,” Wedge said, “and was a pilot at Exegol.”

The use of the word _‘was’_ indicated what had happened. “I’m sorry,” Lando said. He had met Norra Wexley briefly during preparations for the Battle of Endor; if her son was anything like her, he was probably one of the Resistance’s best pilots and worst nightmares.

One side of Wedge’s mouth twitched in a faint mockery of a smile. “I’m sorry too.”

“What was he like?” Lando asked.

“I met him when he was a teenager, not long before Jakku. First day of our acquaintance, he tried selling us out to the Imps—”

“Who hasn’t done that once or twice?” Lando joked. Chewbacca growled at him.

“—then rescued us barely an hour later,” Wedge continued. “And he built this droid, Mister Bones. It was a cross between a B-1 battle droid and a horror story: the thing was painted red, covered in _actual bones,_ and fought like an IG assassin droid—”

Artoo made an impressed whistle. Wedge laughed a little. “Yeah, I think you would have gotten along.” His expression grew wistful. “Temmin was so _much:_ he loved and created and fought with everything he had, and then some. He wanted to help so badly, usually by throwing himself into the middle of the worst part of a battle. I suppose I’m not surprised that he…” Something in his jaw tensed. “He tried to get Norra and me to join the Resistance after Hosnian Prime. I know that I… that I probably couldn’t have done any good if we’d gone with him—there were too many enemy ships at Exegol—but I still wonder.” He took another deep breath before continuing. “It used to be that it was our friends who died in these kinds of battles… now it’s our kids.”

«Ben,» Chewbacca said quietly (well, what counted as quiet for a Wookiee). «Though I don’t know how I feel about him being gone. Not yet. It’s too new of a feeling.» He took a sip from the flask. «Too new, but I’ve mourned him so many times already.»

[Threepio too,] Artoo said. [The memory wipe took him away before and almost did again. This time, I had a backup and could restore it, but not the first time it happened. I couldn’t do any good back then.]

“You’ve gone a lot of good since then,” Lando reassured him, giving the droid a pat on his domed head. With his other hand, he lifted his glass of whiskey in a toast. “To the ones we lost, and the ones they saved.”

Wedge raised his glass alongside Lando’s. “To the things and people they fought for.”

«To the stories we’ll tell about them,» Chewbacca said, raising his flask.

[To the memories they left behind,] Artoo joined in.

As the three non-droids finished toasting and sipped their drinks, Lando looked up at the stars overhead. Tomorrow, the work would resume, but tonight, it was just the four of them, all unexpected survivors, and the ghosts that had come and gone.

**Author's Note:**

> I read Chuck Wendig's _Aftermath_ trilogy and Rebecca Roanhorse's _Resistance Reborn_ a few months after Episode IX came out, and retroactively became Extremely Sad about poor Wedge and poor Norra and poor Snap... and then got a bunch of feelings about some other Original Trilogy folks who made it to the end of the sequels, and decided to give them a little send-off.
> 
> (Also, apparently there's a deleted RoS scene where we learn that Lando had a kid who was taken by the First Order? I didn't include that in this fic, but wanted to mention it here in case anyone pointed it out in the comments).
> 
> Thank you for reading, and may the Force be with you!


End file.
